


I'm Not Dylan Thomas, So Don't Expect Any Poetry

by Starlingthefool



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:50:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are not allowed to pass out from blood loss in this car, arsehole."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Dylan Thomas, So Don't Expect Any Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [A/E Last Drabble Writer Standing](http://ae-ldws.livejournal.com).

Eames can only effectively swear in four languages, a fact he’s regretting right now. “ _Vie de merde,_ ” he says, having exhausted English, Turkish, and Swahili. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Eames–” Arthur whispers.

“Shut up. You are such a fucking idiot, Arthur. Honestly, I should have let you bleed to death on the sidewalk.”

“You wouldn’t,” Arthur says, in a weak, panting voice. He’s leaning against the car window, one pale hand pressed against the bleeding wound on his stomach.

“You’re lucky you’re a good fuck,” Eames snarls.

“Is that... all I am to you?” Arthur pants.

“Fuck off,” Eames says. “You’re not getting any declarations from me.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. Eames glances at him. Arthur’s nodding off, so Eames punches him in the leg.

“Fuck!” Arthur gasps. “What the fuck, Eames?”

“You are not allowed to pass out from blood loss in this car, arsehole. You are bloody well staying awake until we get to the safe house, do you understand?”

“Eames,” Arthur says, a hoarse whisper. “Eames, I–”

“Oh, no,” Eames spits. “We are not doing any dying confessions bullshit, you fucking wanker.”

“Eames, please,” Arthur says. His voice cracks on the last word.

“You’ve waited this long to tell me you love me,” Eames shouts. “You can fucking well wait until sometime you’re _not fucking dying._ ”

There’s silence in the car, aside from the growling engine and Arthur’s shallow breathing. After a moment, Arthur whispers, “I guess I owe you that much.”

“Goddam right you do.”

Silence again. Then, weakly, “Do you know any good jokes?”

If – no, _when_ – Arthur lives through this, Eames is going to kill him just to make a point. Or kiss the hell out of him, he hasn’t decided which.

(It’s the latter, as it turns out.)


End file.
